


won't go seek you, won't let you go

by wordsmithie



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Age Difference, Eventual Smut, F/M, Longing, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pining, Romance, Yearning, all that good stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26318695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsmithie/pseuds/wordsmithie
Summary: "When she had glared at him after he handed her and the boy over to the Empire, he’d felt as if the top of his head might be singed from the ferocity of her loathing. He’d clung to his tenet, wielding it as a shield from the flames in her eyes."DJ can't stop thinking about the girl he handed over to the Empire, and maybe - dare he say it? - can't help feeling a little guilty. When a chance meeting throws her in his path again he is loath to let this opportunity slip through his fingers. (AKA a lot of kissing happens.)
Relationships: DJ/Rose Tico
Comments: 16
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

_I am ashamed_

_of my coward soul,_

_that won’t go seek you_

_and won’t let you go._

\- Gabriela Mistral, from “Verses”, Selected Poems of Gabriela Mistral

_“It is astonishing how violently a big branch shakes when a silly little bird has left it.”_

\- Katherine Mansfield, from “Alors, je pars.” in Delphi Complete Works of Katherine Mansfield

* * *

He knew innocence as a feather, light and unattached, but ultimately weighted down by the accumulating burdens of reality. But it seemed she was one of those birds - rare, in his life - forged from iron and fiery, unwavering faith. He hadn’t known innocence could burn. He hadn’t known that the universe had anything it could surprise him with.

When she had glared at him after he handed her and the boy over to the Empire, he’d felt as if the top of his head might be singed from the ferocity of her loathing. He’d clung to his tenet, wielding it as a shield from the flames in her eyes. 

“They blow you up today, you blow them up tomorrow,” he said, his eyes coasting over her gaze. 

_Coward_ , said a voice he’d thought he’d long ago buried. 

* * *

He hadn’t planned on returning the pendant. But then he’d decided to sell them out and returning the pendant seemed like a good compromise. It would have been overkill otherwise. And now, he’s glad he’d done it. Because otherwise, that look of hers would weigh on him even more than it already does. 

It’s that look which flashes through his mind when he hears that she and the boy somehow managed to escape the Empire’s clutches. He finds a bottle of stolen whiskey and takes a long slug, toasting an escape he had no hand in orchestrating. 

* * *

He’s at The Last Glass, squinting over a shot when the waitress makes her way to his table. 

“Another drink, cowboy?”

He looks up, drinks in her curves, the feline smile. There’s a fire in her eyes. He imagines it’s the same as the flames he saw from the girl. And since when had he started thinking of her as “the girl”? As if there is no one else that is relevant. 

He slams the glass on the table, trying to drown out the stupidity of his own thoughts, but it’s no use because in less than thirty seconds he’s got the waitress in the back hallway, both of them panting and desperate, and he even more desperate because he’s trying to conjure someone that’s not in his arms. The thought makes him yank himself away from the woman, infuriated, still hard, and stalks out of the bar. 

* * *

He hasn’t had a betrayal follow him so relentlessly. It’s been years since he’s thought of them as “betrayals.” His work has only consisted of transactions.

Talk of two Resistance fighters trapped by the First Order hovers at the edges of bars and filters through the black market chains. He wonders if it’s the same two he “helped.” 

* * *

Trying to not pay attention to this obsession is a performance for which he is the disbelieving audience of one. It’s like an itch he can’t quite reach, but the fact that it itches at all is mortifying. 

He throws himself into the next job. He’s reckless, they’re almost caught, and when he finally receives his payment the client looks at him with enough doubt touching their eyes that he knows he won’t receive any more custom in that quarter again. 

He tries for more caution with the following job. He has no desire to deal with dwindling work. Still, he almost misses his cue again (because, again, innocent eyes burning in his brain, again that flash of steeled faith), and the guards are almost back just as he manages to break out his targets. In fact, the guards are practically on him and he has to resort to using his shooter which he hates - too messy, he’d rather be in and out before anyone is the wiser.

“Who’s there?”

It’s someone in the next cell, alerted by the bullets. The skin at the back of his neck itches and he has to hold back his assumptions before they leap too high. He’s already been foolish with one woman because she happened to have a passing resemblance to _her._

He moves closer to the cell, steps slowing and mind racing. There isn’t much light and she’s been blindfolded but he can tell it’s her. It’s too easy to tell it’s her. 

“Well, well, well, you seem to be d-developing a habit of getting caught,” he says, triumph in his voice. After all, he’s found the quarry he’s been trying his damndest not to look for but has been wanting all the same. She’s fallen into his arms, practically. Or she will. 

“Who are you?” He can tell that she recognises him, or something of him. Her voice is too tense for it not to be true. 

He picks the lock of this cell faster than he did the previous one.

“I see you still have your pendant,” he says by way of greeting. 

Her head jerks up - he’s standing too close, he knows he’s standing too close - and her lips part. 

“You…”

Her anger is mesmerising.

“What are you doing here?”

“We don’t have time for p-pleasantaries, darling. We’ll have company soon.” And without further preamble, he scoops her up - surprise leaves her unresistant - and she slumps over his shoulder, handcuffed wrists flopping against his back. 

“Put me down!”

“You can exercise your m-maidenly outrage later,” he says with a grunt, jogging down the hallway, and stopping to check around a corner before heading for the exit. 

“Put me down!” she repeats. “I don’t want you to rescue me!”

That pulls a chuckle from him. 

“Sorry, p-princess, I’m the only knight you got at the moment.”

Instead of making his way to the ship he flew in on, he opts for one of the First Order’s smaller, unassuming pods. Easier to throw them off his back. The two prisoners he freed would have made their escape on the unmarked ship that had been waiting for them. He’s glad of the arrangements. For reasons he doesn’t want to examine closely, he doesn’t want to share any of this unexpected gift of time with his new quarry with anyone else. 

He deposits her haphazardly into the passenger seat - he knows it’ll anger her and smiles when she bristles - and briskly does up her safety belts.

“Where are we going?” she asks as he kicks the pod into activity.

“Well, I’ve just finished a job,” he says, steering the pod, “and I’m tired -” he revs the engine - “and hungry -” the pod ascends smoothly - “and I just want to g-get some rest.” The pod slices through the night air, the engine barely making a noise. Just the way he likes it. 

“But you’ll drop me off first?” The question is curt but when he cuts a glance in her direction he sees she’s tense, chin rigid, nervousness lining her limbs. 

He doesn’t say anything and presses down on the accelerator. 

* * *

They give him the keys to his regular suite. 

“Funny type of hotel that lets you bring in a blindfolded, handcuffed prisoner.” Her voice is sullen as he guides her into the room, his hand at her back. 

“It has a...unique clientele. They don’t expose their p-patrons, and their patrons don’t expose them.” 

He kicks the door shut and flicks on the lights so that the room is bathed in a warm yellow. 

She turns in the middle of the room to face him - or rather, where his voice is coming from - and he finds himself moving towards her. 

“B-besides,” he says, coming to stand in front of her and watching her blindly tilt her face up at the sound of his voice, “no doubt, they thought you wanted this.”

Her lips curl in disgust at what she clearly thinks is a lie. 

“Why would anyone _want_ to be blindfolded and handcuffed?”

He is glad that her eyes are covered because her mouth is preoccupying enough as it is. He’s got her chin in his hands before he knows what he’s doing, and his thumb brushes her lips. He expects her to shove him away but instead she becomes still between his fingers. 

“Because,” he says, bending close so that his lips are inches above her ear. “It can significantly -” he pauses to let his mouth just barely touch the curve of her ear, smiling as she shivers - “it can s-significantly increase the amount of pleasure one feels.” His tongue slips out, tracing the curve of her ear that’s not obscured by the cloth of the blindfold. Before he can stop himself, his lips coast down the swell of her cheek and he lets his hot breath fan over it.

He can hear her breath coming faster and he flashes a quick grin. 

“You see what I mean?” he asks, kissing down the line of her jaw. 

She whimpers and brings up her bound hands in front of her, holding them against his chest as if to keep him at bay. Except - except she tilts her head back, and he presses his advantage, tasting as much of her as he can. He nibbles at the soft skin, sucking it in between his teeth. More sounds drip from her mouth and, as small as they are, they entangle his thoughts. 

He curls an arm around her waist, pulls her closer, trapping her closed fists between them. He hears her murmur “Wait,” but his lips have just found hers and their taste is exactly what he imagined. Or rather their effect is exactly what he imagined. 

Because all it does is make him want more. More of her heat, more of her taste, more of her panting breaths. He tries to taste every inch of her, growling at the intensity of his need and unable to process everything he wants to. He wants to catalogue every sound that escapes her, every in and out of her tongue, record the way her lips fit beneath his, the way she -

She pushes at his chest with her curled fists and he staggers, blinking as he remembers his surroundings once more. 

He looks at the girl again, an apology on his tongue. She’s standing there, still blindfolded, cuffed hands held aloft in front of her. There’s a warm, red flush arching across her cheeks and her lips, small and unassuming as they are, are bruised and, to be frank, just look as if they need to be kissed some more.

And the apology vanishes because he isn’t sorry. Why pretend otherwise?

“It enhances the senses, you see?” He clears his throat.

“I - I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She stumbles over the words in her outrage. 

He laughs and takes a step forward and she jerks back.

“Easy, darling. I just want to get you out of these c-cuffs.”

“I don’t need your help.” She clenches her jaw and he imagines the eyes that would flash in accompaniment. 

He lets out a long, slow chuckle because he knows it will irritate her.

“Yes,” he says. “You do. I’m the slicer, r-remember? And I didn’t swipe a key on the way out of the prison. So I’m your only hope, if you want out of those things.”

He watches her throat work as she swallows and licks his lips. She is silent for a long moment and then stretches out her arms, holding her bound hands to him. 

The wordless gesture brings a smile to his face. Thank God she can’t see it. 

He moves closer, taking her wrists in his hands, and her head automatically lifts, her obstructed gaze trying to pinpoint exactly where he is. 

He allows himself a moment to indulge in the details of her upturned face, the wide curves of her nose, her small chin, red and roughened from his stubble. 

She shifts uneasily on her feet, and he starts, his hand slipping into his pocket for the lock-picker. In a few seconds the clasps come undone and he removes them from her wrists, tossing them onto the chaise that sits across from the bed. 

She immediately tugs at the knot of the blindfold, grunting as it resists her attempts before finally pulling it off her. 

Her eyes seem to slam into his, and he stands there, helpless, watching her. Watching the war of anger, embarrassment, and curiosity play out across her face. Watching the flush that had disappeared return and he realises, seeing that her eyes are on his lips, that she’s thinking about their kiss. The jolting realisation makes him smile. It’s a small triumph. 

She tears her gaze away and takes in her surroundings, eyes widening at the tasteful decor and luxurious furniture. 

“This is a lot nicer than I expected.”

He shrugs. “It p-pays to have friends in high places.”

Her lips scrunch into a rosebud of disapproval, and a breathy laugh escapes him. 

“Well, p-princess, I’ll leave you to sit and judge. Wouldn’t begrudge you your high horse,” he says, kicking off his boots and unbuttoning his coat before throwing it in the direction of the coat stand. It just manages to catch on one of the hooks. 

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to shower,” he says as he turns to face her, untucking his shirt. 

“And you’re just going to leave me here?” She watches him with wary eyes. 

“You’re more than welcome to join me,” he says pulling off the shirt. He doesn’t miss the way her eyes quickly move over his chest and torso before flitting away. She licks her mouth with the tip of her tongue and he can feel blood pool in his groin. 

“That’s - that’s not what I meant. I meant that -” she falters to a stop. 

He watches her with bored eyes as he unbuckles his belt. He knows what she means. But damned if he’s going to give her a way out. This is far too entertaining. He tries not to laugh at the way she swivels on her feet when he undoes the buttons at his waist. Perhaps he will take pity on her, after all. 

“R-relax, princess,” he says, as he makes his way to the bathroom. “If you won’t join me, I'll just amuse myself.” She still doesn’t turn around but the tips of her ears are a fiery red, and this time he doesn’t hold back the laughter. 

* * *

When he steps out, freshly showered and robed (he doesn’t need her fainting on him, he thinks, almost maliciously), it’s to see her sitting on the edge of the bed, feet together and hands clasped on her knees. 

“God,” he groans, “you’re ‘p-prim and proper’ personified.” 

And, he realises with a closer look, she’s fuming. 

“So, tried the door did you?” he asks, rubbing at the back of his head with a towel. 

She glares at him. 

“You locked it. 

He doesn’t say anything, because - well, it’s true. 

“Where’s the key?”

He pauses his hair drying to look up at her, head still bent, a slow smile growing on his lips. 

“It was worth a try,” she mutters. 

He can’t help scoffing at that. Really, he wants to laugh, but he feels he’s already laughed too much today. 

“Well, if you aren’t going to let me out, then I might as well get clean.” And with that she stalks into the bathroom. The slam of the door is followed by the distinct sound of the lock falling into place.


	2. Chapter 2

When she’d heard his voice in the cell she had doubted herself. Surely it couldn’t be him? Again? Surely the universe wasn’t so cruel as to throw her at his mercy twice. But the universe was. She was trying to learn not to be surprised at the universe’s cruelty. 

Because it _was_ him. The man with the indifferent eyes. The one who had promised to help them and then handed them over to the enemy. It was humiliating to have to be rescued by him. 

And it was even more humiliating the way she’d trembled in his arms. 

She’d almost been too afraid to take off the blindfold and look him in the eye after he’d stirred such a reaction in her. She had been afraid he would be gloating. But instead he only looked indifferent. (She was still learning not to be surprised by the universe.)

That was what he had become in her head. The man with the indifferent eyes. He behaved with little regard for the consequences of his actions. Her eyes drop to his lips. And he clearly kissed the way, too. He had a careless mouth to go with his indifferent eyes. 

It inflames her to think that his mouth has such power over her. She sees him smirk with the knowledge of it and she turns away. 

She hates him. She hates him and everything he stands for and she is not going to be taken in by his kissing or the fancy hotel rooms he stays at. She turns, trying to think of a way out of the situation, trying to ignore him, but then he starts unbuttoning his shirt. 

“What are you doing?” She is grateful that her voice doesn’t crack. 

She tries not to look at the bit of skin that is visible, becoming less a bit of skin to a lot as his fingers work at the buttons. 

“I’m going to shower.”

“And you’re just going to leave me here?” Does he really think that she’d just sit and wait? That she wouldn’t try to escape?

“You’re more than welcome to join me,” he says, taunting. The shirt comes off. He’s lithe, wiry, almost a ghost of a man, except ghosts don’t have scars. She looks away, her mouth dry. 

“That’s - that’s not what I mean. I meant that -” she can’t string the words together, and she settles for glaring at him.

But she can’t even do that because he’s taking off his belt, casual and cool as if he regularly does this for an audience, and she can feel her glare weaken, can feel her face heat. She turns away, full of shame at the fact that she can’t be indifferent to him. 

“R-relax, princess,” he says, and she can hear him holding back laughter, which is almost worse than his actually laughing. “If you won’t join me, I’ll have to amuse myself.”

She thinks she knows what he means, but she won’t turn around to give him the satisfaction, and - alright, obviously she’s far too embarrassed. He does laugh then, and she wants to turn around and show him she is unaffected but she doesn’t, because she isn’t unaffected. 

As soon as the bathroom door shuts, however, she bolts for the front door. It’s locked, of course. She tries the service caller, but there is only silence when she tries it. He must have deactivated it and, of course, the room card with the passcode is nowhere to be found. 

“Bastard!”

There’s nothing for it. She’ll just have to hope she can find the keys. They aren’t in any of his pockets - that would, of course, have been too easy. But nor are they to be found in the bedside table drawers, the small cabinet, or the walk-in wardrobe. She runs her fingers along every edge and backing and the only thing she learns is that the hotel staff takes dusting very seriously, indeed. 

She lowers herself onto the edge of the bed, sighing in defeat. Perhaps the keys are in his trouser pockets. It is unlikely that he would’ve left them out here for her to find. 

She bends to unlace her boots. What did he want with her? Despite what Paige always insisted, she isn’t entirely naive. After all, she knows what it means when someone kisses your throat like _that._ But surely he could get that from anyone else. 

She pulls off the boots, and then the socks, pressing her toes against the plush carpet. Maybe he plans on getting a ransom for her. Maybe he’s already contacted the Resistance. She yawns, the bedding so soft beneath her palms that she’s tempted to flop back and fall asleep. But no. She straightens. She can’t be taken in by the luxuries. She won’t let her guard down. 

The water stops, and after several moments the bathroom door opens. She looks at him from the corner of her eyes, relieved to see that he’s wearing a bathrobe. It irks her to note the way the deep green of the cloth complements his black and grey hair. 

His comment about her prim-and-proper-ness irks more, which she suspects was the intention and she straightens her back some more. 

“So, tried the door did you?” he says, and she finally looks straight at him. The damp hair makes him seem vulnerable, softer. She can almost pretend his eyes aren’t so indifferent. Stupid girl. 

“You locked it,” she accuses, angry at him and herself. 

He doesn’t look the least bit repentant. 

“Where’s the key?”

The look he shoots her is almost companionable. It could even be called charming, the way he smiles at her from lowered eyelids. 

She’s horrified to find that it almost mollifies her. 

“It was worth a try,” she mutters, noticing how his scars are contrasted sharply against his damp skin. He scoffs but his mouth is crooked up in a half smile, and it only further dampens her anger. And that, of course, won’t do _at all_ so she says something about needing a shower and escapes to the bathroom. 

* * *

The shower is somewhat of a reprieve. As spacious as the hotel room is, it feels much too small when he’s in there with her. 

She lets the water wash away the grime of the last thirty-six hours. Its warmth soothes her tired bones and she has to fight to keep standing, to keep her eyes from fluttering and staying closed. 

Finally, she steps out of the shower and dries herself, winding her hair up in a towel. She checks the drawers to see what’s on offer. There is another bathrobe, as well as some night clothes, looking sleek and inviting. She doesn’t even consider the long, silky options. They would swamp her, and more importantly, _he_ might think that she is expecting something to happen between them which she is most definitely not. The man is arrogant, boorish, and - she brushes her fingers over her lips - she absolutely doesn’t care how good his kisses are. 

She opts for a practical-looking tunic and pants that hang loosely on her. She does the buttons up to her neck, and ties the drawstring of her pants tightly. 

She puts on the robe for good measure. It’s comically long on her, but she’ll settle for comedy. She has no need for anything else. 

When she goes to turn the handle, her fingers are reluctant and it’s hard to pretend away her nerves. Anger at her own foolishness makes her yank the door open viciously. 

He turns from where he’s standing at the side table, his eyebrows raised in hyperbolic alarm. 

“I see the shower d-d-didn’t do anything to cool you down.” 

She glares beyond him at the side table which she sees is now spread with silver dishes, covered by gleaming lids. 

“And I see that you ordered food while I was showering. Didn’t want me talking with the staff?” 

“Such little faith,” he says, assuming a woebegone expression as he walks towards her, two glasses in his hand. “When I so c-c-carefully considered your comforts.” He holds out one of the glasses to her. 

“I don’t think that caring has anything to do with it,” she says, taking the glass but eyeing it with suspicion. 

“D-d-don’t worry. It’s only guava juice.” He cuts his eyes at her before he takes a sip of his own drink. “F-f-figured you weren’t the type for alcohol in hotel rooms with strange men.”

She blinks - she really hadn’t expected that, and it is considerate, far more considerate than she would have thought him capable of. 

“Even,” he continues, his voice raspy, “ones who’ve had their tongue down your throat.” 

She chokes a little on the gulp of juice she’d taken, coughs and looks up at him with watery eyes. 

“ _Not_ a stranger,” she says. “A traitor.”

“Oof,” he winces, squinting his eyes. “Let’s not f-f-fixate on the details, shall we?”

Her eyes keep catching on the scars on his right cheekbone. She wonders how he got them. 

“Why _did_ you break me out?’

He watches her for a moment, and then opens his mouth, but instead of answering her he takes a drink. He licks his lips, runs his tongue slowly along the bottom one as he watches her. 

Something - nervousness? - beats at her throat. She tries to focus, meets his gaze once more, but his slightly raised eyebrows and knowing look only make her feel even more unsteady. 

“No one’s paying you. I doubt anyone at the Resistance base even knows I got caught yet. There is nothing in it for you.”

“You have a p-p-poor imagination,” he says, his eyes flat. He tips his head back and downs the rest of his drink. His throat moves as he swallows and the beating at the bottom of her throat becomes slightly frantic. 

He places his glass on the small table next to the chaise before turning to her. His lips are darker and his eyes are no longer flat. He takes the glass in her hands and places it on the table next to his before moving in closer. 

She moves to take a step back, but he grabs her wrist.

“Ah-ah. You asked a q-q-question.” He tugs, pulling her closer. She can see the grey and black bristles on his chin, remembers how they felt on her skin only minutes ago, is loath to admit that she wants to feel them on her skin again.

His fingers brush along her jaw, and she marvels at his rough calluses and their tenderness. He dips his head so that his lips are almost on hers. 

“There are more immediate rewards,” he says into her lips, before branding her mouth with the heat of his. His kiss is slow, almost laconic, as if he is tasting her in his dreams, as if he has lived this dream before, and wants to take his time reliving it, re-tasting her. Despite his tempered speed, her breath is unsteady. The slow, sensual sweep of his tongue makes the back of her knees prickle, and she can feel they are on the verge of buckling. Her unsteadiness jostles her mouth against his, and he lets go of her jaw to clasp a tight arm around her waist. 

He pulls her closer, groaning as their bodies come together. He’s still arched over her in an urgent question mark. 

“T-t-too short,” he grumbles against the corner of her mouth. 

“You’re too tall!” She can feel his quick grin. And then her eyes fly open with a gasp because both his hands are gripping her bottom. He pulls her up, hooking one of her legs around his hips as he moves back and lowers himself onto the chaise, kicking his boots out of the way as he does so, a small metallic tinkle ringing through the air. 

She blinks, hands on his shoulders as she tries to register the change and the fact that she has just discovered where the keys are hidden. His heavy-lidded eyes are still on her.

“Problem solved?” he rasps. 

She can only nod because the sound of his voice, torn and desperate, seems to have muted hers. 

“P-p-perfect,” he breathes, before his lips are on hers again. His unrelenting kisses transform the small beating at her throat into something wild and blazing, spreading through her veins. She finds that her arms have clasped themselves around his neck, and she has no idea how or when that happened. She brushes the back of his head, running her fingers over the short strands. The hairs there are softer than his stubble. 

There’s a groan from him, and she uses both hands to massage his hair, running her fingers in random patterns. He sighs, long and slow, the warmth of it fluttering across her neck. 

“You c-c-catch on quick,” he breathes, a fragmented accusation, as he presses his hot lips to the side of her neck. 

She tries to think of something witty to say, but her thoughts seem to slow to a sludge whenever his lips are on her throat. All she can do is stretch her head back and let him do as he will. 

His fingers curve around the swell of her breast. They brush over the buttons that cross in a diagonal line from one shoulder to the bottom of the opposite rib. 

“What is this thing you have on?” he murmurs against her skin just above the neckline. 

“It - it was practical,” she gasps, and he shakes his head, laughing into the valley of her breasts. His head dips and his mouth covers one of her nipples and she jolts, alarmed at the strange intimacy of it, the practical shirt failing against his laving tongue. 

“Foolish g-g-girl,” he murmurs around her nipple, his other hand still around her waist, “did you really think practicality would work?” His teeth graze at her nipple and her eyes fly open. 

The hand that was at her other breast drops, slipping under the tunic to find the drawstring. His fingers tug at it, once, twice, and then again. His growl of frustration pierces through the heat and haze of her mind. 

“What - what are we doing?” she asks, as she feels the tie at her waist loosen. She doesn’t think he’ll answer, but he pauses and looks up, his hooded eyes landing on her with certainty. 

“Making the most of our t-t-time,” he says, before lowering his lips to her breast once more. 

His hand dips into the pyjama bottoms, his fingers finding the heat between her legs. A whimper tears out of her as his fingers weave through the damp curls, slipping into her. He groans, his lips breaking away from her breast as his forehead falls forward. 

“You…” he rasps. “To think I…” He looks up at her and his eyes are far from indifferent. 

She’s dying to know what he was going to say and she opens her mouth to ask, but he chooses that moment to change the movement of his fingers and she loses all possibility of coherent thought. 

His eyes are still on hers and she revels in it, in the power that seems to surge through her from them as she moves against his fingers, and she hates it, hates that he can see her becoming undone at his hands. 

His gaze is searching and she feels she might catch flame. Her skin feels tight, and she wishes she’d shed the bathrobe, but his arm is still a vice around her waist. His fingers are slow but relentless, and she bites her lips. 

“N-no.” He leans forward to lick her lips, kisses them apart. “D-d-don’t,” he says, kissing down her throat. “Let me hear you. Let me have this.”

And then his fingers turn demanding, as if he wants to find the very core of her, and she feels herself come apart, can hear herself making sounds that she didn’t think were possible. 

“Th-th-that’s it,” he murmurs, as shivers run over her. “You’re alright. That’s it.”

The gasps coming from her make her sound like a dying thing.

The hand at her back is gentle, rubbing the space between her shoulder blades. Her knees have lost feeling, and her thighs tremble against his legs. 

“B-b-breathe. That’s right. You’re perfect.” His voice is a croak, and the sound of it tugs at her. He plants a small kiss on her parted lips, his hands tugging at her robe. 

“Get this off. You’re going to overheat.” He is very practical, his movements almost clinical as he slowly pulls it off her, not meeting her eyes. 

For some reason she feels the pinprick of disappointment. She supposes she should be grateful that she can’t see if his eyes are indifferent. She’s suddenly angry, the exhaustion of the past few days, and what he’s just coaxed out of her, slamming into her in a matter of minutes. 

She yanks her arm out of the sleeve, her ire only increasing as he turns to lay the robe carefully on the chaise next to him. 

“You know,” she snaps, tugging at the tunic so that it sits straight again, “if you regret this, just say so.”

She manages a brief glare at him because she can’t stand to see the confirmation of her words and moves to get off him. 

His hands clasp her waist with lightning-quick speed. 

“You th-th-think I regret this?” His eyes are on her again, and the raging thing in her quietens. She only lifts her chin to accede the point. 

“Then you’re even more foolish than I thought.” 

His words pull up further irritation and she opens her mouth to retaliate when he stops her with a kiss so harsh that she is forced to realise two things: one, that he’s angry, too, and two, that he’s been holding back all this time. 

His fingers are like metal on her waist, as if he is trying to bind her to him, and she is alarmed to discover that she only wants him to bind her tighter, she only wants to see how her world would hold up under his pressure. And then he stands, lifting her, his hands cupping her bottom as he walks to the bed and lowers her onto it, slow, still continuing their kiss. Their lips finally break apart when her back hits the mattress and she takes the opportunity to take in some air. 

“Sorry about th-th-that,” he says, laughing. “You should know I’m g-g-greedy.”

“I think I gathered that much.” She realises it’s a little difficult to sound sardonic and withering when lying on one’s back with a man on top, a man kissing one’s throat as if he has only just discovered the phenomenon. 

He simply chuckles into the hollow of her throat, punctuating his laughter with a bite that makes her jolt. 

His fingers, calloused and scratchy, move across her temple, dislodging her towel. She can feel it come undone, and he slips his fingers into her damp strands, tugging at them so that her head is pulled back, her lips falling apart just enough for him to slide his between them. 

She feels the heat of his open-mouthed kisses traveling down her throat, her chest, over her torso, the heat of them burning through the fabric of her tunic. He tugs at the hem of her tunic, pulls at the lining of the pants, his rough fingers gentle but determined against her belly.

She tries to focus. 

“Wait - stop - what are you doing?” His movements are so focused and single-minded that she doesn’t expect a reaction, but he moves back up as determinedly as he’d previously made his way down. 

His nose runs along the underside of her jaw, nuzzles her chin. 

“I have lost c-c-countless hours imagining how you’d taste.” He moves up and she’s frozen under his heavy gaze. “Let me have this.” It is a plea cloaked under a command. 

He moves back down, slower this time, pulling up bunches of her tunic and pausing to graze his teeth at the swell of her breasts, flick his tongue at her nipples, before taking one in his mouth and sucking on it. 

She tries to hold back but a strangled whimper escapes her. She can feel the ghost of his triumphant grin against the side of her breast, before he moves further down, his breath fluttering over her belly, as he traces down it with laughing, open-mouthed kisses. 

She grits her teeth, making a sound of anger. 

“Now, d-d-don’t be put out, darling. I love hearing your sounds,” he says, a staccato confession traced down her hip that has her wriggling. 

Her need to move is only fueled stronger as his lips move down the valley of her hip bones. 

She feels his fingers curve around her hips, thinking he must be able to sense how her skin has come alive, crackling and singeing, so that she might incinerate into scattering particles and never be whole again. 

“It’s alright,” he says to her nervous movements. “I’ll be c-c-careful.” And then his lips descend between her legs and she knows he was lying because this, this casual dismantling of her senses, this swift conquering is not careful at all. 

He moves with the arrogant surety of one taking what’s theirs. And maybe, the thought forms like a haze of smoke through the flames in her head, maybe he’s right, maybe his tongue fits in and against and over her as if it was created solely for that purpose. 

She can feel his groans at the core of her, feels them radiating out to the rest of her to weaken her knee here, to tug at her elbow there, make her chest feel as if it might burst, a sound designed to weaken individual parts of her enough to make her feel like all of her will collapse. 

There’s a desperate gasping, trailed by fragmented moans, a sound so foreign and humiliating that she doesn’t think it could possibly be her. But it is. She lets go of the knot of blankets to clasp a hand over her mouth, even as her hips move uncontrollably against his tongue. She can only seem to hold back one part of her body at a time, her traitorous body which seems to sing at his touch. 

He grabs her hand and pulls it away and she feels him grunt “No” against her thigh. 

And then he shifts slightly, tilting the axis at which her world now rotates, and she sees stars. This is sublime punishment, he, able to destroy her with a curve of his tongue, she, weightless and un-tethered. He’s relentless, devoted to his mission, doesn’t stop even as she cries out. Heat presses against every inch of her. 

“I - I can’t,” she gasps, head rolling against the pillows.

“You can,” he grunts, and the interrupted pattern of his bristle against her legs, his single-minded command has her sinking. There is no breath in her, no air left in the world for what he wants from her. 

And then the world shatters around her, a desperate moan escaping her, her face flushing with both realised desire and acute shame.

She pants, riding the high of what he’s given, while exhaustion from the past few days’ trial, and the past few moments’ torture catch up with her. 

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, moving back up. His voice is broken. “D-d-don’t be embarrassed.” His face is level with hers, and his eyes are too much. “You were g-g-glorious. See?” And when he kisses her, she’s confronted with the fact that his tongue has become familiar in a matter of minutes. 

The kiss is slow but forceful, him pushing and pushing as if he is trying to get to the root of her. 

She is curious - and wary - that this may be a prelude to more. She’s not sure how she will be able to take it. Her senses are already overwhelmed, the energy that had coursed through her like a live wire only moments before having abandoned her to the feeling of weighted bones. 

He breaks away, licking her lips and then his. His hand is at her cheek, his thumb rubbing the dip of her cheekbone. He doesn’t seem to realise he’s doing it. 

“You look b-b-b-bone tired,” he croaks. He brushes a strand of damp hair off her forehead, clearing his throat. “You should sleep.”

His eyes are indifferent once more, and he moves off her, his movements stiff. The sudden absence of his heat is jarring, and she hates that her body yearns for his already with such ferocity. 

He disappears into the bathroom with a few quick steps and she feels both abandoned and free. 

“Stupid,” she mutters, tugging at her pyjama bottoms and doing up the ties, pressing her knees together, trying to temper the ache between her legs. Anger and confusion rival each other for prominence before exhaustion fells them both, and she turns to her side, letting her eyes drift closed. 

* * *

She wakes, mouth parched and she sits up desperate for water. She pushes back the blanket, one leg sliding off the bed when she spies a glass of water on the bedside table, waiting quietly in the shadows. She gulps it down, like one who has been traveling deserts for months, and not like someone who has just - she lowers the empty glass back on the table and turns. He’s next to her, lying on his stomach, head resting one arm, the other arm snaking under the bunched pillow. The partial moonlight falls over his bare back and the swell of his shoulder. 

She wonders with some trepidation if he is clothed under the covers. He shifts slightly, murmuring in his sleep, and the scars on his cheekbone twitch. She reaches out to run a finger over the reddenned lines, and something in her sighs at this small fulfilment of a wish. She lets her finger move, allows herself to keep touching, feel the softness and hardness of his stubble. She touches a fingertip to the corner of his mouth when he moves again with a grunt and she yanks her hand away with a gasp. 

With one more look, she slides off the bed, making her way to his boots. She shakes both until she hears the tell-tale jingle in one and finds the key hidden in the side flap. She shakes her head, both irked and impressed at his arrogance of leaving her with the keys while he showered. 

She collects her clothes from the bathroom, perhaps not moving as quickly as one should in such a situation, before finally unlocking the door and shutting it behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um yeah, i'm so embarrassed that i almost didn't post this. still kinda am but let's not dwell.😬 so this was going to be a two-parter, but i'm expanding it to four. (for now? who knows? eh, chances of a four-parter are very high.)
> 
> anyway, you should totally come yell with me about this ship on tumblr. i'm @wordsmithie-tells-stories.
> 
> (also, like, what's the condom sitch in the star wars universe? what would they be called? cosmic condoms? intergalactic prophylactics? are they even concerned about birth control??)

**Author's Note:**

> This ship has me. In. Its. Claws.
> 
> Also, I know next to nil about Star Wars so excuse any mistakes/odd terminology. I'm just making shit up as I go. All I care about is these two -shrug-.


End file.
